“Jacklins mostly.” He patted her hand. “I’ll be happy to give you a tour.” He led her around the room, offering brief biographies of his ancestors. Harold Jacklin, his father, the distinguished congressman. Edmund Jacklin, before him, a railroad man and banker. She is a charming girl, he thought. Not at all like the cold fish that strutted up and down Wall Street. When he’d finished talking about the paintings, he was happy to find her hand still on his arm.
“You know, J. J.,” said the woman, “I’ve always believed that the Pendletons are America’s forgotten family. Nathaniel Pendleton is hardly mentioned in the history books, yet he was a close friend of Alexander Hamilton and George Washington. It’s time to give our family its due.”
“I couldn’t agree more. You know, I’m a bit of a history nut myself. Tradition runs in our blood. A respect for the past. I’m the fifth generation Jacklin to serve his country. I’m a marine myself. Old Nat Pendleton was a colonel in the cavalry.”
“South Carolina, wasn’t it?”
“Now you’re talking. I see you know something of the family.”
“Actually, I’m a history nut, too. I used to give walking tours of old New York. We’d start at Fraunces Tavern, then walk up to St. Paul’s.”
“Fraunces Tavern? So you’re familiar with the Long Room?”
Jennifer Pendleton nodded. “Where General Washington said farewell to his officers. I believe it was December 4, 1783.”
Jacklin looked at the girl in a new light. She was sharp as a tack. He’d have to give Mickey Schiff a call and see if she might take Bolden’s place. He’d be more than happy to steer a little extra business in HW’s direction, if it meant making a few overnight company visits with this golden-haired damsel. He checked his watch. “Would you like to see it right now?”
“The Long Room? New York’s a bit of a trip.”
Jacklin pulled her closer and whispered in her ear. “Who’s talking about going to New York? Come with me, but we’ve got to hurry. Dinner’s due to be served. Picked out the menu myself. Are you partial to truffles?”
Jacklin led the young woman upstairs. When he came to the door, he stopped. “This took me twenty years to get just right. Every detail is just as it was that night in 1783.”
Jacklin pushed open the door and turned on the light. He walked around the table and pointed out the display case holding Lincoln’s Bible and Hamilton’s hair. Her rapt attention reminded him of his own ardor for the subject. “Nat Pendleton used to meet with General Washington and that fox Hamilton in this very room. It was more a club for them than a tavern.”
“A club. Really?” Jenny’s heart beat faster. It was real. Just as Bobby Stillman had said. Just as Simon Bonny had promised.
“Yes. A place where they could repair in private, smoke a cigar, have a few tankards of ale. But Washington was a serious fellow. He came here to do business. See to the affairs of the country.” Jacklin ran a hand over a large burled-wood humidor set atop a matching burled-wood stand. “See this?”
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
“Handmade to match General Washington’s own. Not a replica. A twin.” Opening the humidor, he selected a Romeo y Julieta that would go nicely with the port being served with dessert. He remembered that these days women smoked the damn things, too. He didn’t want to be taken for her granddad. “Care for one… Jenny, is it?”
“Oh no, I believe that cigars are best left for the man of the house.”
Jacklin nodded appreciatively. She was talking his language. He walked the length of the table. “Yes sir,” he said. “More important decisions were made in this room than I’d care to guess.”
“I’m getting goose bumps,” said Jenny.
“There, there. Let me warm you up.” Jacklin rubbed her arms. “You’re shaking.”
“I should have brought a shawl.”
“Nonsense.” Jacklin slipped his arm around her, letting his hand drift lower and caress her bottom.
“And you said that General Washington had meetings here?” she asked. “Even when he was President?”
“Oh yes. There were some things he couldn’t talk about in Philadelphia. Too many spies. You have no idea-” A bell sounded from downstairs. Jacklin looked toward the door. “There’s dinner.” He allowed his hand to linger and noticed the woman didn’t seem to mind. Well, well, the night might turn out a little more exciting than he’d planned. “What table are you at, m’dear?”
“I left my invitation at home. I don’t remember what it might have said.”
“You’re welcome to join Leona and me, if you like.”
“No, really, I don’t mean to intrude. I’ve already taken up enough of your time.”
Jacklin switched off the lights and closed the door. “Consider it done,” he said, feeling the glow of an impending conquest. “We’re family, after all. We have to stick together.”
61
It was Jacklin’s house. Franciscus knew it without being told. He could see it through the glade of pines as they drove up an unpaved road adjacent to the property. A classic Colonial with fluted white columns, forest green shutters, and a portico you could drive a hansom cab through. Some party, too. The place was lit up like Tavern on the Green. Mercedeses, BMWs, more than a few Rollses lined the driveway. Not a Ford in the lot. The car pitched and rumbled over loose rock and gravel and came to an abrupt halt. Several men emerged from the woods and formed a cordon around his door. At their signal, he was spirited out of the car and marched to a stable three hundred yards down a manicured stone trail. A lone guard was posted outside. As they approached, he spoke some words into his lapel mike and opened the door. Franciscus walked inside, along with the two men who had driven him down from Reagan Airport.
They passed a line of empty stalls and led him to a tack room with saddles draped on wooden rods and horse blankets stacked in one corner. The room was small, fifteen feet by fifteen, with a poured concrete floor, an antique bench, and a hurricane lamp hanging from the ceiling. He sat down on the bench and rubbed his hands together. It was frigid and damp inside. He had on an overcoat and his suit, but the walk had raised a sweat. Before long, he was shivering.
Franciscus didn’t have much experience being a captive, and the truth was that it scared the shit out of him. He’d seen David Bernstein’s body, looked at the slug that had killed him. He knew that the men who held him were capable of murder. Mostly, he was scared because he knew what they wanted, and he had decided that he wasn’t going to give it to them.
The door opened and a sallow, hunched man about his age walked in. His tux identified him as a member of the ruling classes. His eyes came to rest on Franciscus. Dark. Depthless. Eyes that looked into your soul.
“Hello, Carnac,” said Franciscus.
“It’s been a while since I’ve heard that. I don’t like it, by the way.” Guilfoyle motioned for the other men to leave. When they were outside, he took up position by the door. “Where did you find the fingerprints?” he asked.
“They were in Kovacs’s things,” said Franciscus agreeably.
“Really? I thought I’d given all of his belongings a good going-over. Where exactly?”
“Does it matter? I looked through his papers and I found them.”
“I trust you have them with you.”
Franciscus looked at him as if he were nuts. “You used to be a cop. Ever carry evidence around with you?”
“Did you leave them in New York? We’ve had a look through your desk and inside your home. Any place we might have missed? Just so you know, we erased the file from LiveScan’s memory. You’ve got the only existing copy of Mr. Jacklin’s prints. That’s to your advantage.”
Franciscus shrugged. “Actually, I gave them to Bill McBride.”